Chapter 53 Logan #2
I shoot Logan a look across the crowd, but he’s already grinning, eyes crinkled, sun on his cheek.
“I’m not crying,” Logan calls back. “It’s called sweat. It’s hot as fucking balls out here.”
Cameron laughs, loud and real, and I feel the moment tug at me—how it should’ve been Pops standing here in his annoying sunglasses, camera held up, yelling “that’s my boy!” like he coached Cam all the way to this stage.
But it’s us.
It’s still us.
And somehow, it matters that we showed up anyway.
Afterward, Cameron gets pulled into photos and handshakes and a dozen “what’s next” questions that make his jaw work like he’s holding back the truth—because his next is professional basketball. Camps. Tryouts. A life that will take him away from here and back again in unpredictable bursts.
He squeezes me when no one is looking.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You good?”
I nod like I’m convincing myself. “Yeah.”
His gaze flicks over my face, like he can tell I’m lying, and he’s letting it slide.
“We’re gonna be okay,” he says, voice low.
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
And then he adds, softer, “You’re doing really good, Slo.”
My throat tightens. I hate compliments that see too much.
I roll my eyes on purpose. “Don’t get emotional. You’ll ruin your brand.”
Cameron snorts, then glances over my shoulder, and his expression shifts into something gentler.
“Logan,” he calls.
Logan steps in like he belongs here—which is funny, because he always has.
He looks different than he did in winter.
Stronger. More solid. Like his body is slowly remembering it’s his again.
He’s still rehabbing. Still building. But you can see the progress in the way he moves—less cautious, less guarded.
Cameron slaps him on the shoulder. “Take care of her.”
Logan’s brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Always.”
I glare at both of them. “I’m standing right here.”
Cameron ignores me. “If you hurt her, I’ll kick your ass.”
Logan’s eyes gleam. “You already did.”
“That was nothing.” Cameron smirks. “And I can do it again.”
“Yeah,” Logan says, rolling his eyes. “I know.”
The ease between them is a relief I didn’t realize I was still praying for. Like some part of me is always braced for everything good to get taken away again.
But it doesn’t.
Not today.
By mid-June, Logan’s spending every night in my bed, and his room down the hall is basically forgotten.
My room starts becoming…ours.
He drives to PCU three to four times a week, even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s early. Even when he’s sore and tired and his leg probably wants to file a formal complaint.
He’s going to be taking online classes so he can stay close to me but still be in the weight room with the team, still build his knee back into something camp-ready—even if it’s not this fall.
Next fall.
That’s what he told Chicago.
Next fall.
And I try not to think too hard about how he chose that. Chose me. Chose us.
Because the second I do, fear starts to creep in again, whispering that choices can change.
But Logan doesn’t.
He just…shows up.
Over and over.
Like it’s the easiest thing in the world to love me in the aftermath.
By August, the air is hotter, the days longer, and the idea of “normal” starts to loom again—classes, practice, the rhythm of life that doesn’t pause just because I lost my favorite person.
I’m anxious about it in a way that’s almost embarrassing.
Normal means people asking how I am like they want an answer that fits in a hallway.
Normal means walking into CSU’s gym and hearing whistles and sneakers squeaking and realizing the world kept spinning while mine stopped.
Normal means being okay enough to function.
And I don’t know if I’m ready to prove I can do that.
The Monday before classes start, I’m in my room pulling my hair into a ponytail for the gym, staring at my reflection like I’m trying to recognize myself again.
My face looks the same, but my eyes don’t.
Logan leans against my doorframe, watching me with that quiet, steady focus that always makes me feel like he sees the parts of me I’m trying to hide.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I answer, tying the elastic too tight and then redoing it because control is the only thing my body knows how to reach for.
“You nervous?” he asks.
I scoff. “No.”
He just raises an eyebrow.
I roll my eyes, then sigh. “Yes.”
Logan pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room like he’s not even thinking about it. He stops behind me, hands settling lightly on my shoulders.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” he murmurs.
I stare at myself in the mirror. “I kind of do. It’s my final year.”
His mouth curves. “You’re allowed to be human in senior year.”
“Since when?”
“Since I said so.” He leans in, kissing the side of my head—soft, quick, like it’s a habit now. Like he’s done it a thousand times and plans to do it a thousand more.
My chest loosens a fraction.
He steps back, grabs his keys off my dresser like he belongs here—which he does, even if my heart still trips over it sometimes.
“I’ve got to head out,” he says. “Sports med wants me in early.”
“Of course they do,” I mutter.
Logan smirks. “They miss me.”
“They miss torturing you.”
“Same thing.”
I grab my gym bag and sling it over my shoulder. “Drive safe.”
He pauses, eyes flicking over my face like he’s checking the stability of the ground beneath me.
“You sure you’re good?” he asks again, quieter.
I swallow. Then I nod, because I am—maybe not fully, maybe not forever, but for this moment, for this morning, for the fact that I’m trying.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good.”
Logan’s expression softens in a way that makes my throat tighten.
“Okay,” he says, and then he leans in and kisses my forehead. “Love you. See you later, senior.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Don’t call me that.”
He grins. “Yes, ma’am.”
I shove him lightly. He catches my wrist without thinking, thumb brushing the inside of it, and for a second, he just holds on, like he doesn’t quite want to let go.
Then he lets go.
And we both leave, heading in different directions, the house quiet behind us.
In the car, the short drive to campus feels familiar—sunlight through the windshield, music low, my hands on the wheel.
But when I pull into the athletic center parking lot, my stomach flips anyway.
I park, taking a few calming breaths before getting out.
I sling my bag higher on my shoulder and head toward the entrance.
I’m almost there when someone whistles.
“AYO!”
I turn just in time to see Jade and Blakely barreling toward me like a coordinated attack.
Jade throws her arms wide. “Senior year, baby!”
Blakely is already bouncing on her toes. “We’re about to be insufferable.”
Jade points at my face. “That ponytail? Aggressive. I love it.”
I can’t help it.
I laugh—small, surprised, real.
Jade’s smile softens like she caught it, too, like she’s proud of me for something I didn’t know I just did.
Blakely hooks her arm through mine. “Come on, Rhodes. Let’s get this conditioning workout over with.”
I glance at the doors of the gym, then back at my friends, and let myself take the step forward.
“Okay,” I say, voice steady. “Let’s do it.”